The genesis of this story is: I went to a Victorian
Fashion Show at a local library. This presentation so
enchanted me that later I thought "I could adopt an eccentric
Faulkneresque persona and dress in period clothing. People
would say -- There goes that writer Emily, and her rose."
This thought process took place at about 2:30 A. M. My
mind leapt from that bit of whimsy to the idea for the following
story which I can only describe as a collision of my love for
Faulkner and Edward Albee.

One of the overhead lights flickered and dimmed as
Nurse Chloe Redman walked down the hall of Valley Rest Care Home.
She'd have to make a note for Maintainance. At the Nurses'
Station Nurse Delores Devoe was finishing up her charting for the
night. Devoe struggled to suppress a yawn. She had the
book ready to make the change of shift report to Redman. The
CNA's --Certified Nursing Assistants -- were quietly loading linen
carts for the morning crew due to arrive in an hour. Outside
an anemic sun made a feeble attempt to filter through the morning
haze.

"Quiet night," said Devoe in greeting.
"Johnson will probably pass sometime today. It's been
expected. Her daughter's number is on this pad. Katie
Carson is sitting with her now."

The new CNA might not have been Redman's first
choice for someone to sit the death watch, but they did have to
learn sometime so why not early on? She remembered her first
time sitting with a patient who passed. It had been a private
home case and she was as nervous as a cat in a room full of pit
bulls. She had hoped the woman would have the courtesy to
wait to shuffle off this mortal coil until Chloe Redman's shift had
ended and responsibility had been passed to another. No such
luck. In spite of all Chloe's appeals to deity and
encouraging thoughts toward her patient the woman gave up her iron
grip on life. After the woman expired Chloe had gone into the
living room to phone the doctor on call. Suddenly she heard a
voice from the bedroom -- the bedroom of the dead woman. The
dead woman. Chloe had frozen in momentary terror and
seriously considered fleeing -- until she realized that the voice
she heard was not that of her deceased patient nor the Grim Reaper,
but merely the clock radio set to come on automatically at that
time. Telling that story, with appropriate chagrin, was
always a bonding moment with new CNA's.

Redman looked over the charts, noting what meds
would be required. After she set those up she'd relieve
Carson, give the CNA a chance to decompress a little before shift
change. She knew it was hard to walk out and suddenly go from
the intensity of a death watch to everyday life.

"233?" she inquired. This was the
case she thought about the most, was haunted by even in her off
hours.

"She's there. Been there all night.
Came in before I came on shift. You know, after three years I
thought she would let go -- emotionally release her husband and
focus on her own life, but I don't think there's been a day that
she hasn't spent some part of it here with him."

"I wish some of our other patients had a
fraction of that caring from their families," responded Redman
to Devoe's observation.

Devoe agreed. Valley of Rest was a state of
the art care center for chronic cases, many of them in a vegetative
state. Yet who knew what may be perceived even by the worst
cases?

The rooms were tastefully decorated to look as much
like bedrooms and as little like an institution as possible while
still containing the necessary equipment. Everything about
the facility was designed to foster a feeling of well-being in an
exclusive setting. Original artwork worth tens of thousands
of dollars graced the walls. Each "suite" opened to
a courtyard which led to a rosarium. This was all for the
benefit of visitors. Patients were rarely aware of their
surroundings with any clarity.

Unlike a hospital, with more strict visiting hours,
Valley of Rest had a relaxed and understanding policy about
visitation. The cost of maintaining a patient, or "guest"
as they were euphemistically referred to in the brochure, was
astronomical -- far beyond the capacity of insurance to pay for.
Only those with significant personal resources had the means to
place their loved ones here. Redman knew that the bill was
paid as conscience money by most patients' relatives who felt that
getting the best care money could buy exorcised any further
responsibility. When visitors did come they were treated with
every deference. No hard plastic bed side chairs here.
Tea and coffee were offered, along with samplings from a local
patisserie.

So if Emily Thorne wanted to come in the middle of
the night -- or day --and sit with her husband she was welcome to
do so. The fact that the woman had generously donated a
million dollars outright to the facility upon admitting her husband
and frequently brought thoughtful gifts for the staff -- such
things as an expensive box of chocolates every month and gift cards
at Christmas -- certainly served to cement that welcome. She
had even taken a home nursing course so that she could assist in
her husband's care -- bathing him and changing the 600 thread count
Egyptian cotton sheets. By the look of her designer
clothes she did not normally have to change her own sheets.
The CNA's loved her and not just because she lightened the load by
one patient. She never failed to inquire about them and their
families. New CNA's always noted the vase of white roses on
the nightstand -- roses replenished each week.

"I carried white roses the day we were
married," Emily told them in explanation. Nothing was
said about the fact that the vase was a Lalique.

"She's still so young. She could have a
life of her own," one CNA had said to Redman. "And
with all the money she has she could travel -- do anything she
wanted for herself and still give him the best care!"

"I guess that's love -- she wants to be with
him even if he's not really with her," Redman had replied.

"I hope he has some idea she's here," the
CNA had sympathized. "It's such a shame if he doesn't
even know his wife is here."

The patient in 233 knew his wife was there.
He could not move or speak and he had no control of his bodily
functions, but he was aware of her presence. He could smell
the roses, too -- the damned white roses she had carried on their
wedding day. Every week a fresh bouquet. Every
week.

He had tried furiously to signal his terror and
rage -- anything -- tap his fingers, blink his eyes -- anything --
but he was frozen. She had seen to that.

She'd told him quietly, chiding him for foolishly
planning to leave her and "run off with that yoga
instructor." That very flexible -- mentally as well as
physically -- yoga instructor. . . . She couldn't have that
nonsense so she slipped some tainted salmon into a casserole and
left it for him one evening when she went to her watercolor class.
By the time she got home he had supped, made an explicit call to
his mistress and nearly died. The most aggressive medical
treatment preserved his life. Sort of. The company pulled the
product and made a settlement offer that meant he would never have
to be placed in some cut rate warehouse. They were happy to
avoid the cost and bad publicity of a lawsuit.

His wife, tenderly shaving him, had explained all
that. His condition was expected to be permanent, sadly.
Afterwards she kissed him, her lips upon his making him shudder
inwardly.

"I will come to see you every day, darling.
We'll never be parted," she had said. "I vow, just
as I did the day we were married. For better, for worse, for richer
for poorer, in sickness and in health -- until death do us part."

Sometimes he feigned sleep when she came into the
room, her hourglass figure reminding him of the red mark of a
certain spider. He hoped she would get bored and leave him to
the relative peace of her absence. The visits lasted hours,
sometimes all night. The yoga instructor never came.

Mrs. Thorne rose from the bed where she had laid
beside her husband. She picked up a long, silky blonde hair
from the pillow where it had fallen out in the night. Holding
it in her hand she trailed it across his face, like a spider's web,
her smile as enigmatic as a Mona Lisa's. Then she gracefully
walked out, leaving him alone with the roses and their scent.
Those damned white roses. In the hall Emily Thorne passed
Nurse Redman who smiled tenderly at the loving wife who kept vigil
so faithfully.